Territoriality
by Eisenschrott
Summary: Post-ESB drabble. Admiral Piett does not like bounty hunters; especially not on his ship. Even after they're long gone.


The freak show had set foot on his bridge six weeks ago, and the smell wasn't gone yet. Piett still found himself holding his breath whenever he crossed that particular section of walkway, where the bounty hunters had stood lined up like so many mockeries of soldiers, displaying their weaponry with a brazenness that, on hindsight, might have been a slack rendition of present-arms.

Granted, it was all in his head, a phantom sensation and nothing more, and the air recycling system was as efficient as ever. But navy people are a superstitious lot. And if the smell was indeed an hallucination, that wasn't the case for the dents and scratches the Trandoshan Bossk's talons had left on the floor. No doubt he'd done that on purpose, a small revenge for… well, for the stark truth. Bounty hunters _are_ scum. Simple as that.

The scratches vanished after a maintenance crew droid filled them in with plaster and painted them over, but a trained eye could tell the minimal difference in the greys, the tiny lighter lines cutting across the durasteel. They drew his gaze, he couldn't help it.

One day while he and Veers were standing by the viewport, exchanging the usual load of fleet gossip and work opinions, the general noticed where he was looking, directed his stare there, and soon there was a sweaty nervous petty officer shifting on her seat.

"Trouble with rowdy crewmembers again?" Veers asked quietly, a hint of threat in his voice.

Piett shook his head. Even quieter, he explained the dents on the floor. Had had it painted over twice already. The damned things were persistent.

"Yes, Admiral. In your imagination."

"You would notice such details, too, if you spent fourteen hours a day on this bridge." And that was on the calm days.

"Still, you're overthinking it."

"Maybe. Anyway, it's an irrelevant matter. You were saying, about those dispatches from the Phindar garrison?"

"Strike out that _maybe_." Veers folded his arms and stood just a little bit straighter, tilting up his head. "And if you're still looking at it, then it isn't irrelevant. So?"

Piett remained deadpan. "Wounded professional pride. Nothing more, nothing less."

"I understand the feeling, I truly do. Not so much your… persistence." Encouraged by the silence, he went on, "For crying out loud: they just stood on your ship without causing damage. They didn't catcall your sweetheart, or—"

"Please, let's go back to that conversation about Phindar before this gets ridiculous."

But the general pushed on the attack, "What are you going to do if, sooner or later, a lucky shot of a Rebel fleet gets up close and personal with the Lady Ex? Not that I'll blame you for blasting the bastards to space dust, but are you going to exact revenge by Base-Delta-Zero-ing every inhabited planet within the sector as well?"

" _That_ is different. It's proper war." Piett glanced towards the scarred walkway, and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Having that scum on my ship instead, making me look like a helpless fool at my own station, in front of my crew—it was as bad as having it rubbed on my face that I'm not worthy of the Lady."

Veers took his time to reply, his thoughts unreadable behind the stony blank expression. At last he nodded slowly, in agreement to the stars knew what, and said, "This, my dear admiral, is overthinking."

"Why, thank you for your invaluable insight, General."

He was expecting Veers to react to the sarcasm with his usual verve, eager for banter like for any other form of fighting. What he got was a thoughtful hue of the general's trademark stare, through narrowed eyes.

Whatever half-skewed, half dreadfully accurate conjecture would come out of that scrutiny, Piett didn't want to hear it. He pulled his shoulders back. No need to try seeming smaller than he already was. It was not going to save him forever, anyway. "Now, once more with feeling: back to Phindar."

A further crack ran across the general's business face, gone in a split second; almost a tiny smile, borne out of pity, of sheer amusement?

"Well, the turbolaser turrets on the eastern side would crumble at the first gust of wind," resumed the general. "Most of the defensive walls had been left untouched since the Clone Wars…"

#

After _twenty-one_ hours on the bridge, an obliterated Rebel base, a bomb alarm in one of the lower decks, and an invisible vice tightening around his throat until an ensign rushed to distract Vader with good news, Piett was about to stop a bleary-eyed captain on his way to the turbolift and have him call up a maintenance droid for a paint job on the walkway. But the pain in his feet inside the boots, his stiff knees and heavy head, rather settled on getting sleep, a shower and a shave, and a hearty meal, without any delay.

He forgot the order ever since.

* * *

Author's note: I wrote this for a tumblr prompt, the catch being " _Ultracrepidarian: Of one who speaks or offers opinions on matters beyond their knowledge_ ". If the result somewhat strikes you as an instance of Piett/Lady Ex, I won't even try denying it.


End file.
